Daughter of the Sun
by lemoncelloismyname
Summary: Therefore, do not bend. Once bend a little and they will bend you further until you are bowed down. Sink your roots into the rock, and face the wind, though it blow away all your leaves. (Or, in which Artanis looses many things, but also finds something else along the way.)


Disclaimer: not mine

.&.

You walk barefoot through the quilted woods of Doriath, the muted crunch of the leaves underfoot the only noise evident in the silent forest. It is painstakingly different from the forests of Aman, but you still find the overgrown, wildness of it all irresistibly stunning. This forest feels alive, the air thick with strange noises and unfamiliar smells, far more so than the beautifully still, harmonious trees of the Undying Lands ever did.

Despite yourself, you find that you also feel more alive than you ever have before. Here, in this wild but beautiful forest, you do not have to be Princess Artanis, noble and radiant, nor are you constantly grappling for a foothold in which to prove your strength to your friends and cousins and brothers, who value you for your beauty and avoid your eyes, because of how your hair glows like the light from the burning ships at Alaqualondë.

("They are my mother's people," you screampleadbegwhimper. "They have done nothing to deserve this." And then, "Please.")

.&.

At first, you know you are undeniably different to these Morquendi, with your strange language and rich fashion and foreign mannerisms, and so you take comfort from your long hours of solitude spent in the woods. Finrod brings you little companionship, what with all his time spent sucking up to Thingol or "forming political allies" amongst the other Sindar. You frequently offer him your assistance; you can be polite and diplomatic when you wish, and each and every time he shoots you down. You are just a pretty face, someone for him to fall back on when there is not more elven lords to be charmed. You work extra hard on your Sindarin, purely to spite him. (You can hold your own, too.)

However, you quickly feel yourself becoming more comfortable than you had ever expected to be around the elves here too. You are no longer half Noldor or half Teleri, instead you are a welcomed guest of Thingol and Melian, the latter of whom regards you with a small, knowing smile that makes you squirm. (Although what she is smiling about you could never guess; the only secrets you have kept from her are drenched in the deep, scarlet blood of sin and betrayal.)

.&.

You hardly notice yourself changing at all, until one particularly formal dinner where you are seated by Finrod, and suddenly you feel severly underdressed in your fine but plain deep-blue gown, your hair loose around your sholders, woven through with simple but ornate silver leaves, next to his bedazzling, jeweled armour fresh from the caves of Nargothrond. It reminds you, in a strange way, of the time as a child when you took a pair of scissors to your long, golden locks, desperate to fit in with your friends and cousins and brothers, only this time the change is welcomed by your peers, instead of getting you a stearn talking to from your father.

You shrug off any second thoughts you are having as Lúthien drags you to your feet for another dance, a welcome escape from your suddenly uptight brother and his pursed lips.

You seem to be dancing with one Sindar in particular, a silver haired elf lord, the one named for a tree in your homeland that he has never layed eyes upon, the one whose eyes sparkle with mischief and lips constantly form that infuriatingly self-assured half smirk, like he is partaking in a joke that only he understands. You feel yourself slowly coming undone around him, and it feels strange, as it should be him melting into a puddle at your feet.

Even so, you start enjoying his company far more than strictly appropriate, along with the rebelious freedom it brings. He laughs when your brothers would have scolded you, he encourages when your brothers would have reprimanded, and gradually you start to notice the disapproving voice of the Noldor princess inside your head diminishing in volume. When you are with him, you can kick your aching shoes off, and instead of lecturing you on the proper behaviour of an elleth of your position, he hastily removes his own boots, anf the two of you run between the trees together, laughing and shrieking like children.

You find yourself chasing him; a delightful, yet frustrating change, but you soon discover that the reward if far worth the effort. (Your stomach flips and your knees weaken as he kisses you, strong arms encircling your tiny frame almost completely, and you also discover that his kisses taste like stardust, and that for once you are perfectly content to let yourself melt into him.)

.&.

Your brothers appear and disappear in a flurry of rushed greetings, one-armed embraces and half hearted dismissals. As always, they work hard to keep you, their _dear little sister_ , separate from the grim events of the war, as if you did not endure the bitter cold of the Helcaraxë right alongside them. With them, you feel like little Artanis again, stealing into your father's library to "borrow" his forbidden books, or watching from the sidelines as Angrod and Aegnor wrestle on the grass, or begging Finrod to teach you how to fight, because although your beauty is your primary weapon and always will be, it wouldn't hurt to be able to take care of yourself. You feel your pride sting, as you are brushed off again and again, left to braid your shimmering hair and giggle with the other ellions while the men are left witht the important work.

You try not to dwell on this too much, and instead throw yourself into life at Menegroth, feasting and hunting and dancing until your feet are rubbed raw.

.&.

Celeborn, you discover, like so many others, lives each day like it will be his last. It is part of the beauty of life here, you can't help but think, all the fear and the pain and the uncertainty makes living so freely and carefully all the more satisfying. It is the knowledge that every breath that you take could be your last that makes the very air in your lungs taste all the better. It is fear that makes you feel alive.

Together, you are like the mingling of the light of Telperion and Laurelin, the sun and the stars, silver and gold together, warm, safe, (whole), and even more beautiful than when you were alone.

He is wild too, even more so than you are, and disturbingly uncouth, so different from the simpering, courteous princes of Aman who used to melt before you like ice to fire. He teaches you mellowness, and poker, and crude pick-up lines that would have shocked your brothers. Around him you do not have to prove yourself, and you start to pick your battles, rather than rushing head on into every confrontation in an effort to be respected for who you are, rather than just your beauty. Around him, you grow from naive, headstrong little Artanis, the Telerion half-breed with a pretty face and fearsome temper, into Galadriel, a strong, magnificent, wonderful woman.

In return, you teach him tact, and the various uses of knitting needles in a fistfight.

Together, you show the world true rebellion, and the beauty that comes with it.

.&.

Your father greats you with a gasp and a crushing embrace, clinging desperately to you as if you will blow away in front of him like your brothers did before you, all dead dead dead. He buries his lined face in your golden hair and inhales you deeply, and for a long time you stand there, father and daughter, content to simply _be_.

"Artanis," he says, when you finally break apart, "I cannot tell you how glad I am to see you safe." (Alive.)

" _Galadriel_ ," you correct, gently, and it kills you to see some of the joy fade from his eyes. Artanis would have stayed anyway, you tell yourself, as you lean against Celeborn's chest and watch Arfinwë sail into the horizon. The difference is that Artanis would have stayed out of pride, out of determination not to backtrack on her own decisions, out of a desire to prove a point. Galadriel stays because of love, and because, out of all the Finwëans exiled from Valinor, she alone has built a new life for herself in this new land you all once dreamed of.

You could have returned, to bring the light back into your father's tired eyes, and to see your mother smile again, and to rest your gaze upon the blackened husks of the two trees (and to have your beauty used as a poor but heeded substitute for their light) but you do not.

.&.

(You could have never left Aman in the first place, and married Celebrimbor, and given Fëanor those locks of hair he so desperately lusted for, and never realised that it was not the Valar who were keeping you enthralled, that it was your own hidden uncertainties in yourself that were truly binding you. You could have stayed in Aman, and remained Artanis, yet instead it is here, in this wild but beautiful forest, that you finally find yourself.)

.&.

Around you, men topple like trees caught up in a storm, friends and cousins and brothers, all uprooted by the unyielding force of the wind. In her mind, you watch Artanis fall with them, embracing death for the sheer sake of it, because for her going out in a blaze of magnificence was the ultimate glory, the ultimate rebellion, the ultimate proof of her courage and strength.

Galadriel, on the other hand, she endures.

-end-

AN: I apologise to anyone who believes I was overly harsh on the sons of Finarfin. If it helps, you should blame Galadriel, as it is from her point of view. Also, please do point out any spelling or grammar errors, particularly if they are in my use of elvish terms/names. My Sindarn and Quenya are both a bit rocky as I am, surprisingly, not an elf.

Hope you all enjoyed!

UPDATE: thank you to the reviewer who pointed out my mistake of listing Orodreth as one of Galadriel's brothers, in my defence I get most of my factual info from my Silm appendix, and I'd forgotten that some of the family trees were not entirely accurate. (And quite a lot of the misinformation seems to be about Orodreth too, poor guy.)


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